


The Rails

by melissaeverdeen13



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7673554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissaeverdeen13/pseuds/melissaeverdeen13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look inside everything that happened during those lost hours on the train.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! I'm not sure how many chapters this little story will have - just a few is my guess. It's not going to be too long, but hopefully you'll enjoy it.

The train is apparently traveling over 250 miles per hour, but it feels like we’re going nowhere, literally and physically.

It’s going so fast that I don’t feel a thing. The only way I know we’re moving is by sitting at a window seat and watching the world whiz by, my knees pulled to my chest and an incredibly sweet mug of hot cocoa held tight in my palms.

We’ve been on the train for just over a full day. We should arrive in District 10 tomorrow. I had always thought it would go faster, that our districts weren’t that far apart, but I’ve come to learn how wrong I had been.

I had been wrong about a lot of things. I’m learning the hard way how altered my perception was of the world we live in.

Just a few days ago, Snow told me I had to not only convince the districts that Peeta and I were in love, but convince him as well. I’ve kept that piece of information to myself, mostly because Peeta and I haven’t _really_ spoken since he was ripped away from me at the end of the last Games.

I don’t know what to say to him, I never really did. I can’t pick apart my feelings for him; it’s much too confusing.

At one point, I had thought that I didn’t have the time to be fiddling with petty romantic drama when my family’s lives were at stake. But I’m slowly coming to realize that the petty romantic drama is what will keep not only them, but also Peeta and I, breathing.

There’s only one thing that matters: during the last Games, I was so in love with him that death seemed better than living without him. I have to think it so much that I’ll start to believe it myself. It’ll start to become real if I make it that way.

Jarring me out of my thoughts, I hear a sharp rap on the doorjamb of the room that I am sitting in. I look over and see Haymitch standing there, an amber-colored drink in hand.

“Meet in the bar car, sweetheart,” he slurs, sloshing his drink around. “We have things to discuss.”

I don’t agree or disagree, I just stare at him until he vacates my space. Once he’s gone, I untuck my legs and make my way to the bar car, where I find Effie, Haymitch and Peeta already sitting. There’s one plush, velvet chair left for me next to Peeta. I stand.

I don’t participate in the meeting, really, I just stand there and watch. More than once, Haymitch looks over to elicit some sort of reaction from me, but I give him nothing. I can’t stop thinking about what Snow said, and what that will mean for mine and Peeta’s future.

It’s not just my future anymore, it’s ours. Haymitch said it himself after we left District 11. We are, essentially, never getting off this train.

The only image that’s coursing through my mind is that poor man getting shot in the head after initiating the mockingjay symbol in the air for me. It was for _me_. His blood is on my hands, though by now it’s hard to find an empty spot.

There is a lot of blood on my hands. 

 

The next night after we read off of Effie’s cards in front of District 10, I sequester myself to the very back of the train so I can watch the world zipping by again. The stars are twinkling above; I do my best to let my eyes linger on just one so I can anchor myself to earth.

“Hey.” His voice scares me so much I practically jump out of my chair.

I press my hand to my heart and feel it hammering wildly. “You scared me,” I say.

“Sorry,” he looks down and smiles, then sits down in the chair beside me. “How are you doing?” I shrug. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I saw a man get shot in the head yesterday because of what I said,” I say. “It messes with your head.”

He nods slowly. There’s not much to say in response to that, and I know it. I don’t know why I said it. I have no reason to make him feel guilty. None of this was Peeta’s fault.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“No, it’s not,” I say, “it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. You…you didn’t do anything wrong.” I think about what Snow said and suddenly I’m paranoid we’re being watched. At this point, I don’t doubt it, but I don’t feel like forcing it for a camera. Right now, the air between Peeta and me is relaxed and calm. Like he said before, we finally have a start at being friends.

I have to admit, ever since he mentioned his favorite color being orange, I’ve watched the sunset every night.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, either,” he tells me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I shouldn’t have said those things. I should’ve just read from Effie’s cards.”

“We both knew you weren’t going to do that,” he says.

“Well, I should’ve,” I mutter.

“You make people…feel things,” he says, “You inspire people. That’s not a bad thing, Katniss.”

“It’s a bad thing when people die because of it,” I state simply. “I’m going to go to bed, Peeta. You should, too. We have another long day tomorrow, full of fake speeches and…” I trail off. “Good night.”

“Good night, Katniss.”

I wake in the middle of the night, my body drenched in sweat and seemingly every one of my muscles tense to the point of bursting. I’m stiffly upright in my bed, my voice hoarse from yelling, and Peeta appears in my doorway.

My chest is heaving. I can’t remember it, but I know it was bad. “I’m sorry, just…a nightmare,” I somehow manage to say. Along with the perspiration on my face, I can feel tear streaks as well.

“It’s okay,” he says, sounding out of breath, “I get them, too. Good night, Katniss.”

As he turns to leave, I clench the sheets tight in my fists. “Peeta, wait.” He turns back around, his eyebrows raised. “Will you stay with me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. He climbs up on my elevated bed, rests his back against the headboard, and wraps one of his arms around me. I melt into his chest, laying my head over his beating heart, and keep my eyes open as he rubs the thin fabric of my nightshirt between his first finger and thumb.

“Always,” he whispers, and I will my eyes to close. Knowing he’s there with me, sleep comes easier. I sleep through the rest of the night with no interruptions.

In the morning when the watery sunlight pours in from the slatted blinds, Peeta’s arms are still strong around me and he’s sound asleep, his chin pressed to his chest. I take a moment for myself and just study him; his unbearably long eyelashes gracing his skin, his lower lip pouted out and slack, the coif of his curly blonde hair somehow still perfect even as it’s mussed. Even as he sleeps, his grip is still firm on me. That could just be from the weight of his arm, though; Peeta is by no means a small person. I like that about him.

He makes me feel safe.

It seems that I’m thinking about Peeta so loudly that he wakes up due to the sheer amount of times I’ve said his name in my head. He blinks slowly, tightening his arm around me and therefore pulling my body closer to his. I don’t object.

“Good morning,” he says, and his voice is raspy. I’ve never heard him in the morning before, not when we haven’t had a million things to worry about. And right now, I guess we still do. But for right now during this tiny, yellow sliver of the day, they’re forgotten.

“Morning,” I whisper, and then find it impossible to meet his crystalline blue eyes. I stare at his chest, which only proves harder after I notice the sprigs of chest hair curling up from under the neckline of his shirt.

“You sleep well?” he asks, and then untangles our bodies and brings his arm back to his side. I feel the draft of the room for the first time, but don’t make a move to touch him again. It’s not so easy when we’re awake.

“I did,” I say, and pull my knees to my chest. “I’m sorry for waking you last night.”

“I wasn’t bothered, Katniss,” he says, and I nod. “Like I said, I get the nightmares, too.”

“I never hear you crying out,” I say under my breath, feeling suddenly weak or lesser from wearing my emotions on my sleeve. I have the urge to shove them back under.

“My nightmares are usually about losing you,” he says easily. I can’t resist looking at him; I could never say something like that out loud. “I’m okay once I realize you’re here.”

I can’t think of a thing to say in response. Haymitch was right; I could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve this boy.

A knock on my door disturbs our corner of the world and both of us jump. The person outside, whoever it is, doesn’t have to say a word. Peeta gets up at his cue. I’m suddenly uncomfortable with the fact that they knew we were together all night, but after the discomfort comes indignation. Let them know. Peeta and I deserve each other’s company after all we’ve been through.

He’s the only person I can relate to these days.

 

When we get off the train in District 9, my hands are clammy, my mouth is dry and my tongue feels like it’s three sizes too big. As we stand backstage, Peeta looks over the cards and mouths the words as he reads along. My heart swells although I don’t know why.

Effie comes in moments later and fluffs my hair, then dots a bit more lipstick onto my lips. “Perfect,” she says, albeit a bit somberly for her, “just remember, read from the cards.”

“Got it,” Peeta says, and because the doors are about to open he reaches for my hand. I take his and we walk out together, standing in front of the masses of people waiting to hear us regurgitate words that everyone knows the President wants to hear.

It makes my stomach churn. I don’t speak. I’m afraid if I do, either I’ll throw up or something will happen like it did in 11. The safest thing for me to do is keep my mouth shut, stand here and look like I’m hopelessly in love with the boy I can’t let go of.

His voice shakes, too, though, at some points. The crowd either doesn’t notice or isn’t paying enough attention. They know just as well as we do that our words are transparent. They mean nothing.

Displeasure from the crowd is better than death, though, any day. I wish there was some way for me to tell them this without putting my life in danger, but I know that there isn’t.

When we step off the stage, I feel dissatisfied and inauthentic. I don’t want people to think I’m becoming some product of the Capitol, although it feels like that even to myself.

When we get back on the train, I skip dinner and head to my room. I wait until it’s dark and then get up from my bed to wander the halls, as I sometimes do when I have nothing else better to fill my time with.

I don’t get far before I run into Peeta. We meet each other’s eyes and exchange something in a glance that we can't with words. I realize that I want to be with him and only him; if I never had to see another face on this tour I would be happy.

I can’t put my finger on a way to tell him that without sounding hopeless.

“Do you want to talk?” he asks, and I nod.

I want him to do all the talking, and I know he will. I want him to put words to what I’m feeling.

We sit across from each other on his bed and just stare at each other, hardly feeling the train’s movement at all.

“I know you don’t want to keep reading what the cards say,” he says, getting right to the point.

“I know we have to,” I mutter, “you don’t have to tell me that.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says. “Katniss, I’m on your side. If you haven’t gotten that by now.”

“I-I know…” I say, although I’m not really sure if I did know. It’s somehow reassuring to hear him say it out loud.

“What would _you_ have said?” he asks, and I notice that he’s in his nightclothes already. I’m not; I hadn’t bothered to change yet. He looks soft and comfortable, dressed in his loose-fitting outfit of muted colors. I look down and see that he’s put a sock over the titanium of his bad foot, though it’s not really necessary. I wonder if he’s self-conscious about it, then condemn myself for being so selfish as not to ask him how he’s been faring before now.

“Everyone knows I would’ve messed it up,” I say dismissively. “We already tried that once.”

He shakes his head. “We’re not in front of a crowd of people now. It’s just me. You can talk to me, Katniss. Tell me what you would’ve said.”

For once, I don’t fight him. Instead, I take my time letting the sand of his words fall between my fingers as I figuratively shift them from hand to hand.

“I would’ve said I was sorry,” I begin, “again. I guess I would’ve said that even though I didn’t know the tributes from their District, that doesn’t make the lives that they lost any less important. I would’ve said that I was grieving alongside the families that felt the loss because not only do I know loss, too, but I feel like the Games took a part of me that I’ll never be able to get back.” I let a long breath out of my nose. “But someone probably would’ve gotten shot again for that. And it probably would’ve been me.”

Peeta has his eyes focused on me, unblinking.

“You’re staring,” I say, avoiding his gaze. “Was it something I said?”

“It was, actually,” he says.

“Well, I’m sorry, I know I’m not perfect like you, but-”

“Would you stop?” he asks, lowering my arm that I had risen to angrily gesture with. “I’m staring because those are beautiful words, Katniss. You have some beautiful things to say.” He nods. “You’re a good person.”

I scoff. “I’m not.”

“You can deny it all you want, but it’s true,” he says, his eyes suddenly flitting everywhere in the room but on me.

“Well, thanks,” I say, and we both know it’s not genuine. I don’t believe him one bit. He’s the better person between us, there’s no contest at all.

As I look at him in the low light of his room, though, I can clearly see that he doesn’t know that.

A feeling that’s quite unfamiliar washes over me, one that I can’t and don’t really want to ignore. I feel like kissing him.

I don’t want to say it out loud, then I’ll just feel stupid. But I don’t know how to make him read my mind.

We both look up from our hands at the same time and lock eyes. “Peeta, I…”

“Would you mind if I kissed you?” he blurts, seemingly surprising himself.

I gnaw the inside of my cheek and nod shakily, not bothering with voicing how badly I want to kiss him, too. Since we’re already going to do it, it’s pointless to say it out loud now.

So sitting there, on the edge of the bed, I scoot closer to him and then don’t know where to put my hands. They shuffle around for a moment and then eventually find a resting place in my own lap, which doesn’t feel natural, but it feels safe. Peeta, of course, comfortably takes my jaw in his hands and draws my face closer to his. I flutter my eyes closed and my heart simultaneously plummets to my feet and leaps out of my throat.

I had forgotten what this feels like. The last time we kissed, we were in the cave and he was on the brink of death. His lips were cold, his skin clammy, and his grip shaky. Now he’s completely the opposite. His lips are warm and supple, his grip is firm and unwavering, and his cheeks are soft without the faintest trace of facial hair.

How can one person be so painfully perfect?

When we break apart, his eyes are hungry and I’m sure mine are, too. I lift my hands from my lap and anchor them on his shoulders to pull myself closer to him. We kiss again, turning our heads this way and that, until our teeth meet with a loud and jarring “clack!”

“Oh, sorry,” I say, backing away and wiping my mouth.

Peeta is grinning.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, pressing my lips together firmly.

“You don’t have to be so worried all the time, Katniss,” he says, and I wonder if he’s trying to fill a quota of how many times he can say my name in an hour. He sure says it an awful lot. “If you just relax, it’ll be easier.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mumble, “I’m sure you’ve kissed plenty of girls. If you must know, you were my first kiss.”

“Back when you were pretending,” he says, still grinning.

“I was keeping us alive,” I snap.

“Joking, Katniss,” he says, “I was joking.”

“Oh. Right,” I say, and let my shoulders deflate. “I’m sorry.”

“You can quit apologizing,” he says, “if you’ll just come here again.”

I oblige him and crawl even closer to him, now we’re lying side-by-side on his bed, our feet overlapping. The space between my legs feels hot and my lower belly is tightening for reasons I’m not too sure of. I’ve never been intimate with a boy before.

I can tell he’s nervous, too, though. He keeps biting his lower lip in a way that is not unattractive, his fingers fiddling with the tiniest things. Right now, they've found the hem of my shirt.

“Come back,” I say, and crane my neck up to reach him. Our lips meet again, this time easier, and we meld against each other. We find a rhythm eventually. He unravels my braid and weaves his fingers deep into my hair, scratching my scalp with his fingernails in a way that turns me to putty in his hands.

Being with him like this helps me forget about all the turmoil of my life. I know I’m selfish for doing this, for using him to forget everything and everyone else, but I don’t have another option.

After a while, his lips drop to my neck. I let out a small squeal of surprise as he presses tentative kisses to my pulse point; I’m sure the blood is about to spurt through my skin it’s pumping so hard.

“Is this okay?” he asks. I give him a taut nod.

He wraps his hands around my back to situate me and his bad leg gets caught under his body. It takes him a minute to get readjusted, and when he does I see the bulge in the crotch of his pants. It makes me lose my breath for a moment, I never expected his body to react to me in such a way.

He catches me staring. “You still have no idea,” he breathes, “the effect you can have.”

I think this twisting feeling in my gut is desire. When it clicks in my mind, I realize how curious I am to see what he looks like – all of him at once. I did see him by the stream when I cleaned him up, but it wasn’t like this.

I think he wants to see me, too.

“What if we had sex?” I practically spit out the words, and once they’re out in the open between us, I feel so incredibly stupid.

“What?”

“Never mind,” I sputter.

“I heard you,” he says, “I just never thought you’d say…that.”

“You don’t want to. Neither do I. I don’t even know what I meant.”

“I _do_ want to,” he says, sitting back on his knees. “I mean, if you want to.”

I take my time drinking in the sight of him; his muscles pushing through the sleeves of his t-shirt, the sharp chisel of his jaw, the swoop of his hair over his forehead. I need him.

“I’ve never done it before,” I admit as I sit up. I strip off my shirt and my pants and sit there in my matching bra and underwear set that the Cinna gave me. He gave me one for each day of the week, but I’ve been conserving them. I don’t remember how long I’ve been wearing this set, the green set.

“It’s okay,” he says, and pulls off his shirt. I already know what he looks like shirtless, but I still can’t help staring. As he bends over the side of the bed to take off his pants, I see him hesitate by his artificial leg.

“If you’re more comfortable with it off, take it off,” I tell him, drawing my knees up to my chest.

“I don’t want to bother you by the sight of it,” he says, still lingering.

“Peeta, you don’t bother me,” I say, “at least not with stuff like that. Other stuff, yes.”

He laughs like I had wanted him to, and then removes the leg. I sense relief from him right away. He seems more _him_ with it off, and I come to the realization that I prefer him without it.

We’re just in our underwear now. I want to touch him, but don’t know how. He’s straining against his boxers, and I can’t stop thinking about it. I want to know if it will hurt, but at the same time I don’t want to know.

I’m hoping a bit of pain will distract me from my intrusive thoughts about this Tour.

“Where do we go from here?” I ask from under him after we’ve been kissing for a while. I’m anxious.

“We…anywhere,” he says, the early onset of a grin on his lips.

“Do you want to take your underwear off?” I ask him.

“Do you want me to?” he asks.

“We both could,” I suggest, “that way one of us wouldn’t feel naked without the other doing it, too.”

“That’s fair,” he says. “Um…”

“What?” I ask, sitting up and leaning over in preparation to unsnap my bra.

“Do you think…I could…do that?” he asks, and his cheeks flush apple-red.

“Oh…yeah, sure,” I say, and shift my hands down to let his in. He wraps his arms around me and fiddles with the clasp, and we both soon realize that he’s not an expert at bras. I don’t know much about this kind, either – the kind I have at home are entirely cloth, and I usually just pull this one on over my head without bothering with the little hooks.

Peeta’s fingers are simply too big and not deft enough. He’s struggling, it’s very obvious.

“I can…I can get it,” I offer, and he reluctantly moves his hands away. I pull the bra off over my head like a t-shirt and throw it to the side. My breasts bounce a little as I toss it, and Peeta ogles them with such intensity that I have to resist the urge to cover up again. “You go now,” I say, nodding towards his boxers.

He strips fast. My throat clogs as I take in the entire sight of him.

I can’t help wondering how he’s going to fit.

I slip my own underwear off and then we’re both sitting there, completely naked, afraid to touch each other again. I wonder what’s allowed and what isn’t. Suddenly, I worry if there’s going to be a knock at his door any second and wonder if we should just get this over with already.

“Should we just do it?” I ask.

“Can I touch you?” he says, and I nod and lay back. He covers my body with his own and I feel every inch of him touching me in places that I never thought Peeta Mellark would touch.

He covers one of my breasts with his hand and the other with his mouth. My head falls back to hit the pillow and all of the breath is stolen from me. “Oh,” I moan, and grapple for something to hold onto. I find his hair, take a large fistful, and tug.

I’ve never felt like this before. It feels like someone is twisting a wet washcloth in my lower belly until it’s about to snap, and I so badly want it to snap.

As his teeth graze my nipple, I let out a moan that’s louder than I intended. An image of Haymitch storming in floods my mind, so I make sure to keep quiet. The last thing I want is to be caught like this.

I let my hands wander on Peeta, though only around his head and neck. I don’t know what I can touch and what I can’t. When he lifts his mouth from my breast, his pupils are extremely dilated and he’s still very hard. I wonder to myself how long that lasts.

“I think we should do it now,” I say, thinking maybe that his erection might fade if we don’t hurry.

“Okay,” he says, positioning himself above me. I have no expectations as to how this should feel, so when he goes in little by little, my eyes widen and my mouth gapes open, but not in a good way.

It feels like I’m being flipped inside out.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he’s halfway in. “I can pull out if you’re-”

“Keep going,” I insist, because this is all my mind can focus on. This is what I hoped for. I want to be in my physical mind only.

He buries himself up to the hilt and his eyes practically roll back inside his head. I feel like I’m being impaled, but I don’t say a word in protest.

His hips jerk once and his arms shake on either sides of my head. “I’m…” he grunts, and pulls out of my swiftly. White stuff spurts from him, down onto the planes of my hipbones and over my bellybutton. I see blood dotting the sheet between my legs and know that it must have come from me.

As Peeta’s muscles spasm, I hear him say, “I can’t believe I thought I was going to die without feeling that.”

I’m not sure what he means.

He takes a while to catch his breath. When he opens his eyes, he sees the blood, too. “Katniss, you’re bleeding,” he says, sounding alarmed.

I press my hand between my legs and see that it’s red when I bring it back up. “It’s okay,” I say calmly. “I’ll go clean myself up.”

“Wait, I…my…it’s on you…”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, picking up my underwear and sliding them back on. I slip my other clothes on, too, and wave him good night. “Thank you. Night, Peeta.”

He stares at me like I’ve grown a third head.

The dull, empty ache in my groin is impossible to ignore. I need to get back to my room to shower it away.

“Night, Katniss.”

When I get back to my room, I strip in the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the tub as the water’s running and wipe between my legs, then lift my arms to see the damage that’s done.

There is a lot of blood on my hands.

 


	2. The Second

I get in the shower and watch the bloody, pink water circle the drain and then eventually wash away. I don’t bleed anymore after that but I do ache, and I don’t think it’s just from it being my first time. I think I want more of him.

I climb into bed; my hair smelling fragrant in a way that it never did at home, and lie on my side to face the window. The trees are blurry as we pass them, we’re speeding along to District 8 and we’ll be there by morning.

More speeches. More unrest.

And I’ll have to look Peeta in the eyes after what we just did.

I close my eyes and try not to think about it. It happened, it was painful, and my first time is over with. Sex can’t always be that bad, though, right? I used to hear the older girls at school talking about it. Once I even overheard a girl named Fallon talk about what it was like to sleep with Gale.

Back then, I hadn’t known what that meant and I can’t remember specifically what she said, but the thought of sleeping with Gale makes my stomach churn.

Before doing it, I had known that part of me would break when Peeta went in. The teachers at school explained it like that, using more technical terms of course. But I hadn’t known that it would hurt so bad. I thought it was supposed to feel good.

I close my eyes and will sleep to come, and it eventually does. I don’t have nightmares that night. Instead all I dream about is Peeta, inside me.

 

            No one speaks at breakfast. Haymitch is hungover and hasn’t emerged from his room, Effie is convening with the prep teams in the next room; it’s only Peeta and I sitting at the table. I’m picking at a muffin, just separating the crumbs and not eating at all. Peeta is cutting up bits of sausage and pushing them around, pretending to eat. Neither of us seem to have much of an appetite.

            I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t return the gaze. The train is stopped at the station and we’re just waiting for the go-ahead to appear in front of everyone. I’ve never wanted to do anything less. The dress they put me in this morning is intricate with high attention to detail, being that District 8 specializes in textiles. I think it was made here, in fact, Effie may have said something along those lines when she gave it to me earlier.

            “Katniss, you look wonderful,” she says, putting her hands on my shoulders. “Peeta, just dashing.”

            His collar is crisp and his shirt is firmly pressed, his pants too. He looks very sharp.

            “People know that these aren’t our words,” I mutter, directed mostly down towards my plate. “They aren’t stupid.”

            “What would you rather?” I hear Haymitch’s voice come slurring through the automatic sliding door. “A little displeasure, or a lot of murder?” He hiccups and I narrow my eyes in his direction, though he doesn’t see me. “Read from the cards or more people die. People may die anyway.”

            “What do you mean?” Peeta asks, and it’s the first time I’ve heard him speak today.

            “Doesn’t concern either of you,” Haymitch says, “I’ve just…been around before. Know how these things work.”

            “What things?” I press, but get no answer.

            Suddenly, the doors leading outside whoosh open and two Peacekeepers stand there, wielding guns and standing with their legs shoulder-width apart.

            “Looks like they’re ready for us,” Haymitch says scornfully.

            “Well, that’s not very accommodating,” Effie says, her voice high and haughty as she leads the way past the Peacekeepers. “Children, follow me. I’ll show you the way to the stage.”

            As we walk, Haymitch sloshes behind us. “You two better warm up for those cameras, and quick,” he says. “Right now it doesn’t look like you’d touch him with a 10-foot pole.”

            “I…” I begin, but find I don’t have anything to say in response.

            I extend my fingers between our hips and Peeta laces his own through them. We walk closer, and he ends up dropping my hand and wrapping his arm around the small of my back. The pads of his fingers dig into my opposite hip, keeping me close.

            I can still clearly feel the throbbing ache between my legs from the night before. With his fingers so tight on me, though, the ache is a bit different now.

            We go out there and speak like we’re told to. Peeta reads his parts and I read mine, and he doesn’t let go of me once. We kiss in front of the crowd, if only to keep the charade alive, and are met with everything but fruit thrown at us.

            It feels like we’re rubbing it in their faces.

            Once we’re behind closed doors again, Peeta’s grip lingers on me for a second too long and I throw myself against his chest. I feel like crying, but no tears come. He pets the back of my head all the way to the ends of my hair, and I stay hidden against his chest until it’s time for us to get back on the train.

            A whole travel day passes where no one speaks to each other. I don’t leave my room once; instead, I stay cooped up like an animal, rinsing out my underwear from a couple nights ago that had turned rust-colored from the blood I shed on them.

            I wonder if I would bleed again if we tried a second time.

            I sit by the window all day, and feel relieved when the sun goes down because I have an excuse to go to bed. I lie there in my impossibly soft nightgown and fold my fingers together on my ribcage, counting my even breaths in an attempt to lull myself to sleep. It doesn’t work.

            I glide my hands higher to cover my breasts, noticing the slight pricks of my nipples through the thin, sheer fabric. I can feel my heart start to thump a bit harder as I graze my thumbs over the buds, trying to make them feel like Peeta had. It doesn’t feel the same, though. I don’t trust my own hands like I trust his, and I don’t know why that is.

            The wringing washcloth feeling in my lower belly is back again. I bend my knees up towards the ceiling, separating them a little, and then lift my hips so I can pull my nightgown up above my waist. It rests in a bunch around my bellybutton, and with shaking hands I trace the waistband of my underwear, feeling the little pink bow that I find so unnecessary. Every pair of underwear I’ve gotten from these Capitol trips has a bow or some sort of lace decal. They’re very different from the underwear I’m used to; thin and airy rather than durable with thick seams. At home we have no use for frilly, girly panties. I never thought I would have a use for these, either, I never thought another’s eyes would ever see them, not until last night.

            I dare myself to pull them down past my hips. Once they’re there, I dare myself further until the little scrap of fabric is loose around my ankles. I cast them to the side with a scoff – they would never keep anyone warm during winter in the Seam. The Capitol doesn’t know anything about creating quality materials. I guess they’ve never had to know.

            Now my lower half is bare, the breeze from the fan in the corner is blowing gently onto my body and making both my hair and nightgown flutter gracefully.

            I’m scared to touch myself, but I want to. I want to know what it really feels like, if I can make myself feel like it should’ve when Peeta was inside me, or test to see if I’ll bleed again. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never done this before, but I’ve heard groups of girls talk about it in hushed tones in the bathroom at school.

            I always thought those girls were petty and melodramatic. Now, I’m too curious to think those same thoughts. I’m not the same girl I was, I guess.

            I take in a shaky breath and feel the downy, invisible peach fuzz under my bellybutton that leads lower and run the pads of my fingers over it until my whole body has goosebumps and my nipples perk up in reaction. I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. I feel immature, ignorant, like I’m in foreign territory. No one has ever told me how to do this, or even what I should be feeling.

            I know Peeta would. But I practically laugh at the thought of asking _Peeta_ to teach me to _masturbate_.

            Knowing him, though, he’d say yes. For completely unselfish reasons, because he’d really want to help me.

            I slip one finger inside my body and am surprised by how warm it is. Almost hot. It doesn’t feel like anything special. I dip another finger in to join, and try to reach them up higher, wondering if I’ll know when to stop.

            I hit something that makes my breath catch in my throat. I yank my fingers out immediately and squint at them, checking for blood, but I can’t see anything in the low light. I flip on the lamp on my bedside table and sit up, examining them. I don’t see any blood, but I definitely hit some sort of nerve. My fingers are shiny from being inside my body, so I wipe them hastily on the fluffy duvet below me and then crawl under it and give up my curious mission in exchange for sleep.

            I’m woken up a few hours later by Peeta’s loud, brash shouts. I shoot up from the bed immediately without thinking, clutching my thick blanket around my shoulders like some sort of cape, and quickly pad down the hall to his room. I find him thrashing around, screaming in his sleep, plagued by an apparently awful nightmare.

            “Peeta, wake up,” I say as gently as I can. “Peeta, it’s me. Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

            I lay my hand on his firm shoulder and he jolts, gasping harshly. His eyes snap open and he looks terrified until he realizes it’s only me.

            “You were screaming,” I say, and look at the state of his bed. His covers are lying on the floor in a heap and his sheets are crumpled at the foot of the bed like he’s been kicking and flailing for hours.

            “I’m sorry,” he says, completely out of breath. His face is flushed; I can tell that much from the dim moonlight shining in through the train window. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I… I don’t remember what I was doing, I don’t even remember falling asleep.” He rubs his eyes like a tired child, just like Prim used to do when she was very small and fighting sleep. I’d recognize the overtiredness anywhere.

            “You need to sleep, Peeta,” I tell him, bracing my palms flat on his bare bed. “Have you been sleeping lately?”

            He shamefully shakes his head. I take in the sight of him; his wrinkled bedclothes, his slackened cheeks, the crinkles on his skin from where his face rested against his pillow. “When I sleep, that happens,” he says.

            “I’ll stay with you,” I offer quietly, testing the waters. “If you want me to.” There’s a charged silence between us. “I even brought my blanket,” I say. He doesn’t respond, so I keep talking. We’ve momentarily switched roles. “I want you to sleep, Peeta, you need your rest. You’ve helped me so much.” I clear my throat. “Let me help you now.”

            He scoots over in the bed and makes room for me. I assume his role and cover us both with my warm blanket and take him in my arms, situating his body so his head rests on my breastbone and one of his arms is strewn over my belly, the heavy weight of it anchoring me to the bed. I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.

            He nestles into me, hugging my middle closer, and I rest one of my cheeks against the top of his hair. From the Capitol shampoo, his hair smells like roses again. I wish it didn’t.

 

            Days pass. We speak in 7, 6, 5, and 4. It’s the middle of the night on the way to 3 when I can’t handle it anymore. I’ve been too scared to touch myself, and I want Peeta again. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed each night so neither of us have nightmares and can sleep until morning, and tonight I roll over towards the middle, covering the empty space where we don’t touch.

            I know he’s not asleep yet, and I’m feeling especially brave because of how dark the room is. He won’t be able to see the flighty look in my eyes or my hair sticking up every which way when it’s over.

            “Peeta?” I whisper, my voice cutting through the tepid air.

            “Katniss,” he mutters, sounding sleepy.

            “Oh, were you asleep?”

            He rolls onto his back, his arms extended above his head. I was wrong; I can see through the darkness just a bit, just enough to see that his curls are more wild than usual because of the increasing humidity in the air. “I’m not now,” he says.

            “Oh, never mind, then,” I say, waving him off. “Go back to sleep.”

            “What?” he asks, “You can’t do that and then not tell me.”

            I just sit there for a long while, my legs extended with my top half being held up by my left arm. Finally, I say, “I don’t think I’d bleed again.”

            “What?” He sounds legitimately confused.

            “If we tried again, you know,” I say, “I don’t think I’d bleed.”

            “Well, you’re probably right,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “But you’re still thinking about that?”

            “You’re _not_?” For some reason I feel brave. Something about this particular night has emboldened me.

            “I never said that,” he says, chuckling. “Did you know you would bleed?”

            “I didn’t know it would be that much,” I admit. “I’m sorry I got it everywhere.”

            “They already changed my sheets. They probably thought I had a big bug bite or something.”

            “That’s one big bug,” I say under my breath, and we both giggle like children. “I tested to see if I’d bleed again and I didn’t.”

            “You…tested?” he asks, sounding confused.

            “Yeah, I…I put my fingers up there just to see,” I say, “I hit something strange and I pulled them out, so I didn’t really get an extensive idea, but I’m pretty sure.”

            “Katniss,” he laughs and shakes his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

            “What?” I ask indignantly, “Why are you laughing at me?”

            “You’re so _pure_ ,” he insists.

            “No, I’m not,” I say.

            “No need to get defensive,” he says, leaning towards me. “I like it. I like that about you.”

            “You do?” I ask tentatively, and he nods.

            “Were you going to ask if…” Now it seems like he’s having a hard time saying it out loud just like I had.

            “Can we try again?” I ask. I’ve never known myself to be quite so upfront. “Like I said, I’m not going to bleed again, and-”

            “Your blood didn’t bother me, Katniss,” he says, “I don’t know why you keep saying that. I wouldn’t care if you bled every time.”

            He’s talking like we’re going to be doing this the rest of our lives. The thought of that almost knocks me flat; the thought of the rest of my life in general already does that on its own.

            “But I got it all over your bed,” I say.

            “I don’t care,” he says. “I just didn’t like hurting you. I could tell it hurt you.”

            I inhale and nod.

            “And you still want to try again?” he asks. “I have heard that it gets better. My brothers, they’d…” he trails off, shaking his head, “they would always talk about girls’ first times and how they’re really painful compared to boys’. They said that it got better, you know, as you went.”

            “Do you trust them?” I ask.

            “No,” he answers immediately, “but that’s one of their areas of expertise. One of the few.”

            “Well, I want to,” I assure him, and pull off my nightgown. I drape it over his headboard and sit there before him with nothing but those thin, nylon underwear on. Not even a bra.

            He makes a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat. I’m surprised holes don’t burn through my chest with how intensely he’s staring at me with those blue eyes of his.

            “Touch me like you did,” I tell him, and then lay down on my back.

            He takes off his shirt and finds his way over to me, lifting his good leg over my hips to straddle me, then anchors his hands on either side of my head.

            “I thought you’d never want to do it again,” he says, his voice sounding a bit wistful. I will him not to get sentimental. I convince myself that I want him for physical reasons only.

            “For once, you were wrong,” I say, and loop my arms around his neck to direct his head down towards my chest. He follows my cue and closes his lips around one of my nipples, which makes a tiny whimper come from me. He spends much more time there than he did last time, squeezing the supple flesh in his callused hand and running his thumb roughly over the center until it hardens to the point of extreme discomfort. Once he does that, he takes his mouth from the breast he’d been on to shift to the other, calming the nipple with his tongue.

            I can’t hold back my moans. Last time, I had worried who might hear. Now, that’s the last thing on my mind.

            He moves his lips and tongue from my breast and kisses a path down the middle of them, all the way down to my bellybutton. I bend my neck at an uncomfortable angle to watch him, and see him smiling against my soft skin. I sit up higher, propping myself up with my elbows, but he lifts an arm to push me back down by one shoulder.

            “Just trust me,” he says, his voice husky. “Do you?”

            I nod shakily and stare up at the ceiling.

            I feel him tug my underwear down slowly, bringing chills down my legs with every passing inch he pulls them. Soon, I’m laid completely bare before him and I’ve never felt so naked.

            He pushes my inner thighs apart with some coaxing – my muscles are very tense – until his head can fit between them. I can’t resist now, I have to look and see. “What are you doing?” I ask, my voice on edge.

            He pushes my shoulder again, taking control of the situation. I’m not used to that. “You said you trusted me,” he reminds me. “I’m going to show you how it’s supposed to feel. How it’s going to feel someday when we do it the other way. But this way is all for you.”

            “What?” I ask, all the more confused.

            My confusion is replaced with sensory overload when his lips connect with the most intimate part of me. My body goes rigid, and my knees bend upwards, involuntarily clenching his head between my thighs. I feel him smile against me. That is a place where I never imagined feeling Peeta Mellark’s smile.

            He wraps his arms around either of my legs to hold me down, to make me stop squirming like I had started to. My skin has indents where his fingers hold me, leaving little white imprints behind.

            He opens his mouth and presses his tongue against me, and fireworks go off behind my eyelids. I resist the urge to scream at the top of my lungs. I never imagined that my body could feel like this. How come no one told me about this? How had I never known that this was possible?

            I’m now finding it impossible to think about anything _else_ except for Peeta’s head between my thighs.

            He pushes his tongue inside me. I’ve lost control of my senses at this point, my body is somehow slack and yet coursing with energy at the same time. I hold generous fistfuls of his blonde curls in my hands so I have something holding me to earth. I think without it; I might accidentally float away.

            It feels like he stays down there for hours. I never want this to end.

            After a while, he finds the same place that my fingers had, but stays there longer. It makes electricity buzz through my entire being.

            “That!” I accidentally shriek, panting by now. “That was what…” I can’t finish my sentence. I find that I don’t need to.

            He returns to it, pressing his tongue against it and then sucking it into his mouth, and I feel like I’ve exited my body permanently. The tensed washcloth in my lower belly has been shaken out, because it feels like every nerve ending inside me is firing at the same time. I scream Peeta’s name as my back arches from the mattress, and he stays connected with me as I come for the very first time in my entire life.

            When it ends, I realize how sweaty I am. My entire body is sticky with perspiration, and I’ve never felt so out of breath.

            “I…” I stammer, and then realize that I’ve started to cry. I don’t know why I’m crying, but I am, so I cover my face with my hands and hate myself as the tears flow faster.

            “What did I do?” Peeta asks, pulling himself up and kissing his way up my body. First on my thigh, then hipbone, then the soft part of my belly.

            “I don’t know,” I say, catching my breath, “I don’t know why I’m crying. I just need a minute.”

            When the tears clear up, Peeta wipes the residue from my face with the pads of his thumbs, then kisses my cheeks. My skin flames following his touch.

            I look at him with glassy eyes; hovering above me and waiting for me to say something. I can hardly find the words to say, though. How could I put together something that would do what I felt justice? I could never. Peeta is the wordsmith, not me.

            “Will you come here?” I ask, mirroring his words from when we were back in the cave together.

            He lays beside me and wraps my body up in his arms; my very naked body. He’s only in his underwear, but I have absolutely nothing on. Our bare chests are pressed tight against one another, also something I never thought I would be able to say about Peeta Mellark.

            He smells wonderful; like cinnamon, flour, dill and sweat. The Capitol scent is gone. At least for now, he’s worked it off.

            I get cold fast, so I pull my nightgown from the headboard and slip it back on. I return to Peeta’s arms before he can say anything in protest.

            “I don’t know what you did,” I whisper once I get comfortable again, trailing my pointer finger amidst the hair on his chest, “but I’ve never felt something like that before. I didn’t know that I could. How did you…how did you know how to do that?”

            Images of Peeta with other girls rush through my mind. I do a bad job at convincing myself that I don’t care. 

            “My brothers talk a _lot_ about sex,” he admits, “they have for as long as I can remember. That’s where I learned…” he clears his throat. “How to do that.”

            “I don’t know what else to say but thank you,” I say, although it feels wrong and too formal. He’s just given me something no one ever has before, and that’s all I have to say?

            “Katniss?” he asks, his fingers dancing over my ribcage and daring to trace the curved underside of my breast.

            “Hmm?” I say, blinking my eyes slowly open. I had just begun to fall asleep.

            Then he doesn’t speak. He shifts his body, though, so he’s more on me than not, and starts kissing me like I know what I’m doing. I smile against his lips, wind my fingers through his hair, and try my best to find a rhythm. We eventually do.

            Peeta peppers his lips along my breastbone, pausing to dart his tongue out over my pulse point, and I smile into his hair. He moves the capped sleeve of my nightgown over to press open-mouthed kisses against the slopes of my shoulder, and I wrap one leg around him and hold tight.

            “I love you,” he says, and my heart stops cold. His lips don’t part from my skin.

            I can’t respond. I think I start to sweat, and I know he must feel my heart racing.

            He lifts his head up from my chest and looks me dead in the eyes. His gaze is sure and steady, compared to mine which is probably flitting all over the room.

            “I just needed to say that. I needed to tell you. When there weren’t any cameras, nobody else. Just me and you.”

            I swallow hard. I never thought I would be put in this situation.

            Peeta knows I’m not good with words. How can he just drop this and expect me to know how to react? I feel an angry blush rising up my neck to spread out over my face, and I’m glad the room is mostly dark so he can’t see it.

            He can read me much too well.

            I don’t know how long I’m silent, but he doesn’t kiss me again. He pulls me into his arms again, though, and I let him. I want his company, being near him is essential, so I don’t know why he would ruin it by saying such a thing as he just did.

            “You’re not obligated to love me back,” he finally says quietly, running his fingers gently through my tousled hair. His words surprise me; I start to chew on my lower lip out of anxiousness. “We can keep sleeping together, doing this, and you don’t have to love me, and it can all be fake. Or you don’t ever have to sleep with me again if you don’t want to. I just…” he lets out a long sigh. “I just had to say it.”

            I wish he hadn’t.


	3. The Final

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this 3-part fic. Thank you to everyone who read it! Feel free to leave me a lot of reviews, I LOVE reading what you guys thought about it. I'll see you back here soon when I start to post the next fic that I've been brainstorming!

Peeta and I go home. We go home and almost instantly, our lives are turned upside down again and I can’t believe that somehow I’m still worrying about his feelings for me.

We’re about to launch into another round of Games. As I sit with my mother and Prim on the last night before the Reaping, I know for a fact that I will not be seeing them again.

            “They can’t do this,” Prim says, and drops her spoon. It hits the side of her bowl with a soft clink, and a bit of her soup sloshes over the side.

            “You need to eat,” I say weakly.

I’ve just come back from Haymitch’s house. I made him promise once again that he would save Peeta over me when it comes down to that, because we both know that it will. He had something that he wasn’t telling me; I could see it in his eyes. I knew he would never spit it out, so I didn’t bother asking, but I know that nothing I have now is going to last.

Two weeks from now, I’ll be dead.

I take comfort in the fact that at least Peeta will hopefully come back to 12 a victor twice over. He’ll never want for anything again. He’ll live a long, healthy life and have as many children as he wants.

I’m expendable. The world can go on without me. It shouldn’t go on without him.

My body is stronger than it has been in a while thanks to the strenuous training that Peeta's forced on Haymitch and me. I’m not nearly as tired as I usually am, and have much more of an appetite, but my nerves are erasing it tonight.

            “There must be something you can say to stop them,” Prim insists.

            “I said you need to eat,” I snap, smacking my palm down on the tabletop. If I had spoken like that to her just a year ago, she would’ve shrunken down and started to cry. Now, she looks at me indignantly.

She grew up while I wasn’t looking.

I’ve already accepted that this will be the last I see of her, and curse myself for acting so brashly towards my little sister. “I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head.

            “It’s okay,” she says.

            “It’s not okay.” I push my bowl away, stand up from the table and hug her tight. What I wouldn’t give to rewind time and change everything so we would never end up where we have.

            “You’re going to make it out, Katniss,” she says, “you already did once.”

I consider arguing; it’s my first instinct, but I stop myself. “You’re right,” I say.

            “I know we’re going to see you again,” she says softly, and then gives me another hug. Not long ago, her head fit perfectly over my heart when I embraced her. Now, she rests her cheek on my shoulder. She’s almost the same height as I am.

She’ll take care of the house once I’m gone. I don’t need to teach her how to do that; she and my mother will make a beautiful partnership with their medical expertise and their lives will continue fine without me.

I give Prim a lasting kiss on the forehead and she knows what I’m doing without me having to say it, I know she does. I can see it in her pretty blue eyes. I hold her head in my hands and she grasps my wrists, her spindly fingers digging into the bones.

            “Come back,” she says, “promise that you will.”

            “I promise,” I say, but we both know that I can’t do that.

 

I lay in bed that night and wonder how my life got to be this way. I have a fiancé that I can’t make heads or tails of, people think Gale is my cousin, my sister has grown up from the ducktail-tucking little girl I knew, I’m about to fight to the death for the second time. And I will probably lose.

Don’t forget to mention the whispers of uprisings that I’ve caught wind of.

When I close my eyes, thankfully sleep comes easily.

I open them to see that Peeta and I are alone in my bedroom. The air feels charged like it did the last time we were together, really together, and I can tell that something is about to happen between us.

He doesn’t waste any time and I don’t really see the point in it, either. We strip off our clothes and soon, our limbs are tangled up in each other and his lips are everywhere on my skin that he can reach.

I’m on fire for him and my groin is throbbing with pure desire. I’m not gentle, I pull his body down onto mine by gripping his shoulders hard, and this time, it doesn’t hurt one bit when he pushes inside me.

He clamps his teeth down on my neck and thrusts his hips against me, pushing himself inside my body over and over again. I never knew that he was so powerful.

My heart is hammering, my entire body is sweating, and I only want more. I’ve never been greedier.

            “Katniss?”

I open my eyes, reacting to the high-pitched, tentative voice right next to my ear.

It’s Prim.

I look around my room and find myself alone in my bed, drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around my ankles.

            “You were having a nightmare,” Prim says innocently, wearing my old nightgown that is still a bit too long for her. The hem of it gathers on the floor where she stands, swaying in place and touching the tips of her fingers together in front of her.

I go along with what she says. I’d rather agree that it was a nightmare than admit I was having a dream about sex. Sex with Peeta, no less.

            “Do you want to sleep here with me?” I ask, and she nods. I go to the bathroom before laying back down and find that a damp patch has soaked through my underwear. Embarrassed, I discard them and change into new ones; the sturdy kind that I’m used to.

I lay back down next to Prim and wrap her up in my arms, holding her tight for the last time, and trail my fingers down the bumps of her single braid. I don’t remember when she stopped braiding her hair in two.

            “Good night, little duck,” I whisper, and squeeze her upper arm. She’s already gone.

 

When the train leaves District 12 the next morning, I’m sitting as an empty shell in the same window seat from before. It feels like I never left.

Peeta bursts in loudly, clearly upset. “They can’t do this!” he exclaims. “We didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

I’m numb at this point. We’ve thought that the Capitol couldn’t do a lot of the things that they’ve done, yet they still continue to do them. Almost nothing surprises me.

            “Your sister, your mother,” he continues. The way he mentions my family and not his own is not lost on me. “Prim. She was screaming for you.”

My eyes drift over and land on his face, feeling more like hollow sockets. “I know.”

            “I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is so full of feeling that I know he means it from the bottom of his heart. “I’m so sorry, Katniss.”

My gut reaction is to turn away, look back out the window and will him to leave the room. But then I remember that I’m going to be dying soon, and Peeta doesn’t deserve my iciness right now. We need each other, so I open up to him.

            “She slept in my bed with me last night. At least I have that.”

He nods, but that’s not good enough for him. It’s not good enough for me, either, but it’s what will get me by. I can almost still feel her small body next to mine, childlike in sleep, her straw-colored hair tickling my nose and chin. It helps me remember a time when we were both much smaller and sleeping in the same bed out of necessity so we could keep warm during the harsh Seam winter. Prim will never have to worry about that again, and for that I’m thankful.

The Games may kill me, but they have saved my sister’s life. That’s what matters.    

            “What about you?” I ask him. “What about your family?”

Peeta shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and I don’t push.

 

Hours pass and eventually, Haymitch finds his way to us. Peeta and I have been lying together on his bed, my head on his chest as he reads. Because of all the time that I’ve had to think, I’ve been concocting an idea that I feel ready to share with them both.

            “Before I left, my sister said that there must be something that I can say to stop them,” I say, lifting up so I can fold my legs underneath my body. We’ve moved to the living area, where we all sit facing each other. “At first I thought she just didn’t get it. But now, I think she might’ve been right.”

            “Then shoot, sweetheart,” Haymitch says, sounding defeated.

            “What if, during the interviews, Peeta tells Caesar that I’m pregnant.”

The silence after my words practically shatters my eardrums. I think about taking it back, undermining myself, but I don’t. I think it’s a halfway decent idea.

            “Well, you’ve said worse,” Haymitch says, shrugging. “I say go for it. There’s not much you can lose now.”

I look at Peeta to gauge his reaction, but I can’t read him. “If you think it has a chance of working,” he says. “I guess, why not?”

I let a small smile creep onto my lips. “That’s what I thought. Everyone loves us. They would never want me to go into an arena carrying a baby, so maybe they’ll change the rules. And I’ll be able to tell Prim that it was her idea that saved us.”

Both Peeta and Haymitch nod, but there isn’t much confidence in their eyes.

            “As long as the boy’s okay with it,” Haymitch grunts, standing. Peeta shrugs and nods, staring down at the floor. “Then you two should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. You’ll want your rest. Night.”

He disappears through the sliding doors and Peeta and I are left sitting together alone. He looks up from the floor and into my eyes, his fingers laced together between his knees as he leans forward towards me.

            “Katniss… you do know what goes into making a baby, don’t you?”

I scoff. He must really think I’m stupid. “Of course I know,” I spit, “my mother is a healer. I’ve seen countless babies delivered, some right on my kitchen table!” I roll my eyes. “I’m not dumb, Peeta.”

He sighs, and if I’m not mistaken I see a smirk playing at his lips. The same fire ignites in my belly and I’m not entirely sure it’s from anger.

            “That’s not what I mean,” he says, “I mean, do you know what goes into _making_ a baby? Not how it comes out.”

I roll my eyes again. He’s treating me like I’m Prim’s age, so unknowing about the world. “You know, I’m not totally clueless. Of course I know. Sex.”

            “So if I tell Caesar you’re pregnant, all the Capitol citizens, actually all of _everyone_ , are going to assume that we’ve had sex. Your mother. Prim.”

“Prim doesn’t know how that works yet,” I say defensively.

“Gale,” he continues. I bristle. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“I’m not really going to be pregnant, Peeta,” I say, “we’re only pretending. And besides, they wouldn't necessarily be assuming wrong.”

“I know that, but…”

“This is the only option we have.” I stare him down until he breaks and looks down at his socked feet. He left the titanium one bare and I’m glad for it.

He sighs and I take that as his agreement.

We both retire to bed and even though I don’t really want to be sleeping alone, I don’t want to be the one who asks him to share his bed. If he had invited me, I would’ve gladly accepted, but he didn’t.

I change into another incredibly soft nightgown, this one a powder blue instead of the white like last time, and settle into my own bed. We have two nights on the train before we’re in the Capitol.

It's tiring to continue to fight with myself, but it’s so hard for me to admit that I want Peeta’s hands on me. All over me. I only have so many more days to live, and that’s not something I want to leave this earth without feeling one more time.

Not tonight, though. I don’t want to beg. So I use this time instead to experiment with myself, as strange of a time as it may seem. I’ve become more of a sexual being in these last 6 months than I ever thought I would be.

I push two of my fingers inside myself, trying to mimic the way that Peeta’s tongue felt there, but they don’t even come close to measuring up. Though I’m annoyed with myself because of that, I tell myself that this is all I’m going to get tonight so I better make the best of it. I shouldn’t be so greedy.

I find that same spot – that group of nerves that made me see stars – and rub my two fingers over the bud. A small shriek escapes my lips and my hips buck against my fingers; my knees involuntarily spread wider and I keep at it. My back arches from the bed as I rub myself in quicker and tighter circles, chasing that feeling that Peeta gave to me all those months ago.

I feel the wetness seeping from between my thighs, coating my fingers with the same shiny substance that had been on his chin when he finished. I don’t slow down when I feel my body start to spasm, I keep going until my free hand has a white-knuckled grip on the sheet and my toes are curling, searching for something to grab onto.

When I come, I can’t help but think about Peeta. I imagine that it’s him touching me instead, holding me down to the mattress with his strong arms and then moving up my body to kiss me.

I want him so badly. I can practically taste his mouth, feel the way his lips pushed against mine and made me his own.

When I come down from my bodily high, I get up from my bed, strip off my underwear and use the bathroom. I change into new ones that are orange, thinking about Peeta and his favorite color.

 

I can feel our time coming to a close by the time the sun sets the next night. Peeta and I have spent all day together, curled up in his bed, picking at Capitol desserts, or just simply looking out the window and enjoying each other’s quiet company. We’ve gotten good at being friends.

But tonight, I don’t want to be friends with him.

I change into the nightgown and come back into his room, my hair let down from its braid in loose waves, the way Peeta likes it best. He’s in his pajamas now, too, sitting up with his back leaned against the headboard. Without looking over at me, he asks, “Are you trying to seduce me?”

I practically choke on his words. “What?” I laugh.

            “Hair down, nightgown on, walking all slow like that.” He finally puts his book down and smiles at me. “You have to know it’s driving me crazy.”

I grin. “I kind of knew. A little.”

I climb up on the bed and straddle him, one knee on either side of his hips. He wraps his hands around my waist and I press my forehead against his, bringing my hands up to finger-comb his blonde locks. “I want to make our last night worth something,” I whisper.

            “Me, too,” he says.

            “Would it be okay if we…did it?” I ask. “One last time. To remember each other by.”

            “Katniss, we-”

I shake my head. “Don’t. Just…can we?”

He nods and a sense of relief washes over me like a tidal wave. I don’t just want him; tonight, I need him. He’s the last good thing that I’ll experience.

He doesn’t know how readily I’ve accepted death in the Quarter Quell, and I intend for it to stay that way. He would just try and talk me out of it, and I’m not up for words now.

I want our bodies to do the talking.

Peeta pulls the nightgown up and I raise my arms above my head so it slips off in one fluid motion. He presses a handful of it to his nose, closes his eyes, and breathes in deep. When he catches me staring, he says, “I just want to remember.”

I crack a smile because I understand. We’re on the same page, then.

My chest is bare, I’m in only my underwear now and I can feel his erection pressing against my inner thigh, prompting me to move things along. I don’t want to rush, though, I want this to last. I want this to be something I carry with me until my very last moments.

            “Let’s go slow,” I suggest, and he nods.

We kiss for the longest time; once his tongue breaches the seam of my lips and makes its way inside my mouth, I’m a goner. It’s like he’s trying to get to know me from the inside out, one inch at a time. He keeps his hands on my waist as we kiss, pulling on the small of my back so my stomach is flush against his.

I don’t even realize that I’ve started to grind my hips against his crotch until he steadies my movement. “If you keep doing that, I’m going to come,” he says.

I giggle and try to keep my hips still after that.

I don’t let myself wonder if I’m taking advantage of him. I don’t let my thoughts wander back to the night during the Victory Tour when he told me he loved me and I didn’t say anything in return. Soon, those things won’t matter because I will be dead, and I’ll just be a memory to him.

But I decide that I should make that memory a good one. I pull his shirt off over his head and open my mouth on his neck, taking a generous portion of skin into my mouth to suck on. His fingers dig into my spine; I can feel the half-moons of his fingernails creating indents that I hope will stay forever.

Peeta slides his hands from the middle of my back to the round of my backside, then slips them inside my underwear to hold it firmly in his hands as I lick his neck. He squeezes the supple skin roughly, his hips jerking under me, and I chuckle low in my throat. Judging by that, I’m definitely doing something right.

After a while, he removes his hands from the back of my underwear and flips us over so I’m lying breathless beneath him. He dives for my chest, pressing sweet, close-mouthed kisses to my sternum and between my breasts, as he fondles the left one casually. When his thumb catches my nipple, both perk up in response, begging for attention.

My center is throbbing with want. I haven’t been able to catch my breath properly since we started.

With him on top now, I do my best at shimmying his pants off of him and succeed eventually. I drag my fingernails up and down his sides, which makes goosebumps appear on his fair skin, and I feel pride in knowing that I did that to him. I feel pride in knowing that I’m capable of doing _all_ of this to him.

            “I’m ready,” I whisper, “are you?”

Peeta pulls his face away to look at mine, then traces my cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. He nods, and I can tell he has something on his mind but he chooses not to say it.

For once, I’m the one to break the silence. “Peeta?” I say, my breath hitching in my throat as he pulls my underwear off.

            “Hm?” he says, unsheathing himself. I still haven’t gotten used to the sight of him, and even if I were going to be alive for longer I don’t know if I ever would.

My mouth goes dry, but I force myself to say it. “I love you, too,” I say softly, and pull him in by his neck for a kiss. It’s long and sweet, our pulses beating in unison as we exchange so much more than even those words could.

My eyes grow hot with tears, but I will them away. I won’t let my intrinsic thoughts come sneaking in now. When he enters me, my eyes roll back in my head and the breath is stolen from me. He’s lost in the feeling, I can tell, because his blue eyes are half-lidded and his jaw is slack.

It feels so much better for me this time. It’s still tight, but there’s no sharp, shooting pain like before. He pumps his hips, soft at first and then a bit rougher, which makes my back scoot up the bed and my head knock the headboard with a hollow thunk.

We both crack up with laughter. “I’m sorry,” Peeta says, petting the back of my head to make sure I’m okay.

I can hardly stop laughing to form a response. The spot aches, but I don’t mind it. “Keep going,” I encourage him after he’s gone still inside me, worrying about my head.

He obeys. He lasts for a few minutes more until he gives one final thrust, his pelvis shuddering against mine as he lets himself go inside me. The Capitol has me on birth control, so I’m not worried about that part. The warmth rushes through me from the inside out, and I feel more complete knowing that I have a piece of Peeta inside my body.

Before I can open my eyes or recover from his orgasm, I feel his fingers touch that same bundle of nerves as he’s still inside me, which makes me come within a matter of moments. I don’t have to pretend that it’s Peeta’s fingers touching me anymore, he’s right here in front of me, his blue eyes boring into mine, touching me in an intimate way that no one else ever will.

My body trembles against him and I throw my head back with my mouth wide open when I come all the way undone. I know he takes so much pleasure in what he can do to me; the smile on his face doesn’t even attempt to hide his pride.

When it’s all finished and we’re both sweaty and spent, our naked bodies fold against each other as close as we can get. We’re both tempted by sleep in this warm room, feeling safe for the last time in each other’s arms. I’m painfully aware of that fact, and I know he must be, too. Otherwise he might not be holding me quite as tight as he is right now.

As we lay together after having real, successful sex for both the first and last time, I try to memorize the feeling of his body pressed to mine.

I try to memorize everything about him because I’m convinced I will never have him like this again.

 


End file.
